


Appearances Can Be Deceiving

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assumptions, Disguise, Disguised Sherlock, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Prompt Fic, Surveillance, Watson's Woes, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11464638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Sherlock has slipped out in disguise for some secret purpose, Mycroft observes via CCTV, etc, and decides he needs to have a talk with his brother about it.Written For The Prompt: "The prompt for July 4 is: To the Makeup Table! Focus on Holmes and/or Watson in disguise – for a case, or for any other reason. For those of you differentiating between new and old prompts, this is a new prompt." -Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts





	Appearances Can Be Deceiving

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think I was going to do anything for this prompt, but an idea occurred to me belatedly, so here it is. Again, this is from another POV than Watson, but by the end it's obvious John plays a pivotal role in the proceedings. Hope it'll do. ;D

When Mycroft saw the flitting shadow at the periphery of the CCTV feed to which Anthea had called his attention, he knew at once it was Sherlock doing a very nearly perfect job of escaping the surveillance on his building and its surroundings. Although it had been less urgent to keep tabs on his younger brother of late, such behaviour was a red flag in and of itself, regardless of context. Thus, Mycroft thanked Anthea for doing an excellent job, as usual, and took over the hunt for where Sherlock was going and why. Of course none of the tracking devices had gone with him; he was far, far too clever for his own good, and Mycroft still wished he could somehow convince Sherlock to at least _teach_ his agents, if not become one.

Casting out in the rough direction the near-miss sighting seemed to suggest, Mycroft caught a familiar tall man coming out of a blind alley in clothes entirely different to what Sherlock had been wearing earlier in the evening, as well as different to what he seemed to have been wearing in that brief glimpse. Instead of dark clothing, he wore faded denims and a pale turtleneck jumper under a thick corduroy button-down in a colour close to spring green. His hair was slicked back and seemed to have had some sort of colourant combed through it, making it look a light, multi-hued brown. Sherlock—for Mycroft, if no one else, knew his brother well enough to spot him when most would not have—also wore thick-framed glasses that broke up the lines of his face. Finally, he walked with a stride very unlike his own, taking shorter, more toe-inward steps, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets and head down, seemingly more focussed on the pavement than the world around him.

It wasn’t until the well-disguised image of Sherlock on the video feed slowed to a stop near a streetlight and glanced at his wristwatch that Mycroft began to suspect his purpose, though he resisted the worst of his immediate suppositions—drugs—because he truly believed Sherlock had learned his lesson and _wanted_ to remain clean. More so now than ever, due to his increasingly intense affections for his flatmate, and now friend, Dr. John Watson.

If nothing else positive could be said for the man, John had always been all for Sherlock remaining drug-free and was quite willing to help him in any way feasible—and had done so. Still undecided, Mycroft waited almost breathlessly to see what had led Sherlock to some kind of rendezvous. Why else would he be checking the time and then stop in a place that was not in front of a shop or business of some kind, a bus stop, tube station, or even a taxi stand?

Further up the street, a man with dark hair, and a neatly-trimmed VanDyke style beard and moustache to match came into range of the camera Mycroft was monitoring, strolling in no particular hurry in the direction of the streetlight under which Sherlock was loitering.

When the dark haired man came close to Sherlock’s position, his aimless stride slowed, and then he stopped a few feet away to say something to Sherlock. Mycroft zoomed the view in to catch the tail end of the stranger’s sentence and was able to lip-read: _“…have the time?”_

Sherlock made a show of looking at his watch and replied, though Mycroft couldn’t see his face at that angle, no matter how he adjusted the available camera’s position. Then Sherlock said something further and the man, a little shorter than Sherlock, but not so short as John Watson, laughed and nodded. He also moved a bit closer.

 _“It’s always that way when winter’s coming in,”_ his lips showed him saying. _“Too little time to do anything useful during the day, but so much time to get up to no good at night.”_

Mycroft grimaced and sighed. Really?

Whatever Sherlock replied, it made a very flirtatious grin cross the shorter man’s face. He did resemble John Watson a bit there, but he had perfectly straight teeth—probably dentures or implants—and they were far whiter than Sherlock’s doctor friend’s. The dark-haired man looked up and down the street as if to see if any of the few pedestrians might be paying them any particular attention, and then leaned in to speak further. Unfortunately Sherlock’s shadow obscured part of what was said, but Mycroft, again, caught the end when the shorter man shifted his feet and came into the light again. _“…to be up to no good, yeah? Where you headed, then?”_

A small groan escaped Mycroft, utterly against his will, and he then held his hand over his mouth, elbow on the desk, as he watched his disguised brother walk away with the man he’d apparently just pulled at a streetlight. They walked quite close and Mycroft was again put in mind of John, but the dark-haired man’s gait wasn’t the same toes-out strut as Dr. John Watson’s. When the shorter man hailed a taxi and they got in, Mycroft had no trouble pulling up the taxi’s information and then proceeding to track its progress, all the way to a low-price motel in a rather seedy area where prostitution and drug-dealing were quite prominent.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed in disappointment. Were things with John going so poorly, then? He had thought, if nothing else, his little brother was loyal to those for whom he carried the sort of torch he’d been carrying for his flatmate, friend, and occasional partner in crime-solving—and sometimes just crime, though usually in aid of the crime-solving, for all that. He had disapproved of Sherlock for many reasons throughout the years, but not once would he have expected to see him cheat on the person he supposedly loved. Even if it seemed that love might still be unrequited—at least as far as Mycroft had been able to ascertain—Sherlock had always been quite scathing about infidelity and Mycroft would never have expected him to even come close to it. Perhaps he was just that desperate?

Flicking off the feeds and information, Mycroft finished up the rest of what he’d set himself to accomplish that evening with a heavy heart. He would visit his brother the following day and have a word, regardless of how upset Sherlock would be about the surveillance; he mustn’t ruin his chances—if there were any—with John. He would regret it later down the road, Mycroft just knew it. Plan made, Mycroft sent an email to Anthea to make sure she would arrange for a car and driver to be available for him in the morning, and at last went home to bed.

~~~

Bright and early the next morning, Mycroft let himself into the street door of 221 Baker Street. Pausing a moment to listen, he ascertained that Mrs. Hudson was very likely still abed—she invariably turned on the radio or television for company as soon as she was up and about—and, upstairs in Sherlock and John’s flat, he could hear the rush and groan of the pipes that announced someone was using the shower or filling the bath. Continuing upward, he found the sitting room door open, though he almost as often found it locked, and had yet to find a pattern or consistent reason for either. It ought to remain locked, given all the trouble that seemed to come Sherlock’s way on a regular basis, but that was not a new discussion and he could bring up yet again some another day.

Sherlock was in a forest green dressing gown, sash dangling loose, over rumpled flannel pyjama bottoms, as well as wearing a pair of brown suede slippers. Mycroft recognised them as gifts from Mrs. Hudson two Christmases back. Hair damp and barely finger-combed, Sherlock paused in the doorway to the kitchen to frown at Mycroft’s entrance.

“What are _you_ doing here at this hour?” he demanded before continuing into the kitchen. A moment later the tiny sound of the electric kettle being switched on announced his goal. Mycroft continued to the doorway, watching Sherlock shuffle drowsily through fetching mugs and teabags, sliding a ceramic sugar container with a cork lid into place before turning his head to give Mycroft a still-displeased glare of enquiry.

“Sherlock, we need to discuss something very important,” Mycroft announced somewhat baldly, aware that John was likely showering or bathing and their privacy would necessarily have a time limit.

“No,” Sherlock argued turning to lean his hips against the counter, belatedly closing his dressing gown and knotting the sash carelessly. “ _You_ need to discuss something. I haven’t the slightest interest.”

Sighing, conveying his impatience and disappointment with the sound—the subtle tightening of Sherlock’s lips telling him it had worked—Mycroft then tapped his umbrella on the linoleum floor and said quietly, “I think you ought to give the situation with Doctor Watson a little more time before doing anything… ill-advised. Well, anything _further_ ill-advised.” Sherlock blinked at him as if he were mad and babbling in tongues. Sighing more shortly, Mycroft pressed onward, anyhow. “I thought you had been making some progress… between the two of you… and I believe you may come to see that he is the type of man who—”

Mycroft broke off when the bathroom door opened beyond the other doorway of the kitchen, John Watson strolling out in a blue and green toweling robe, still rubbing a candy-striped green, red, and white towel over his hair. He had started speaking almost as soon as he was through the door, voice only slightly muffled at first by the towel. “Sherlock, I don’t think I’m going to be able to wash out the—oh, hullo, Mycroft.” Upon lowering the towel, John had broken off what he was saying to Sherlock the instant he spotted Mycroft.

His hair stuck up wildly about his head due to the vigorous towelling he’d been doing, and Mycroft could see that the roots of his otherwise fairish hair were darker than usual. Furthermore, the skin at John’s jaw and upper lip was pinker than the rest of his face, as if mildly irritated, and Mycroft felt all the factors line up in his mind with a sudden _click!_

“Mycroft’s here to deliver a lecture on morals, or something,” Sherlock drawled, blatantly eyeing John’s hair and face before turning back to his brother, lifting one eyebrow and smirking slightly.

“Bit late, that,” commented John with a little huff of dry amusement, draping the towel over his shoulder to idly finger-comb his hair as he looked expectantly at Mycroft.

A purplish-red spot low on the side of his neck then caught Mycroft’s eye, just before he returned his attention to Sherlock, noting a rashy patch along his neck and the left side of his jaw that only now took on greater significance. Whisker burn, almost certainly. Mycroft’s lips pinched into a moue of annoyance—not embarrassment, because he _did not_ embarrass. No. Not in his position, thank you.

“I see neither of you is in need of my… advice… this morning.” Mycroft gave his brother the subtlest of congratulatory nods, though still quite displeased that he had missed something he ought to have caught. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said as cordially as he could manage and turned to go.

Following him toward the sitting room door, Sherlock waited till they were almost there before he rumbled in an undertone, “Back off, brother mine. You’re going too far.”

Mycroft turned and looked at his sibling assessingly, already deciding that he would have to adjust his expectations and assumptions going forward, as well as the intrusiveness of his surveillance, but he was not about to admit anything aloud. Instead, he glanced past Sherlock to where John’s shadow showed he was lurking just beyond the kitchen doorway, and then caught his brother’s gaze full-on. “Well, it’s about time,” was all he deemed necessary to say, tilting his head minimally in parting before exiting. Behind him, the door slammed shut and the click of the lock came an instant later.

By the time he reached the street door, the faint sound of John Watson’s unique giggle came to his ear, along with the deeper notes of Sherlock’s own laughter. Strolling on out to where his driver was waiting with the car, Mycroft’s lips eventually pulled into the tiniest of smiles, partially at himself and partially in genuine happiness for his little brother. Let them mock him, it was of no consequence, he dismissed magnanimously, directing the driver to stop at one of his favourite patisseries, where he bought a celebratory treat for himself and for his PA, as well as arranging for a delivery of breakfast pastries to 221B Baker Street.


End file.
